And her father wouldn’t approve even though he was as addicted to his phone as anybody. More than anybody, he was also—and this was sort of a contradiction considering his phone was always with him—really paranoid about technology, maybe because he worked in technology. He wouldn’t get an Alexa thing because he didn’t want anyone spying on them in their home. He wouldn’t like this new device that had come into Ilanka’s life at all. Which was maybe part of the appeal of being a part of it?

Back at their building after dinner, she went up to the roof alone. It was another great place to study the skyline and imagine the lives of other people who were better at all this, maybe, than she was, the way Svetlana was. Svetlana had friends. She had a mystery boyfriend.

Ilanka only had this secret, and who knew how long she could even keep it?

She opened Instagram and the photo she’d taken of it was right there. It would be so easy to post and say, “Anybody know what this creepy thing is?”

But she didn’t. She tapped the camera. The light was so perfect up there at that moment. She took a selfie and posted it with the caption “TFW the light is just perfect.” #sunset #nyc #nofilter and was proud of herself because for a long time she’d had a mental block and always had to google what TFW stood for.

That feeling when. That feeling when.

While she waited for her likes to start ticking up, she went to pull up the picture of the device again. But it was gone. She must have accidentally deleted it.

She searched for each of the three and considered friending or following or whatever, but didn’t.

She texted them: Turns out I’ll be by the movie theater near school Sunday around 11:20 so can get device then.

She had ten hearts on her selfie—five gymnastics friends and five internet randoms—and sat there waiting for more.

Eden

EDEN

Voices at home when she walked in.

This was not good. Not good at all.

Anjali was sitting at the kitchen table with Eden’s mom. They both had mugs in front of them and looked like they’d been there awhile. Her mom had their “I Astoria” mug; Anjali’s said, “Dad You Rock,” and seemed to send shrill feedback across the room.

“What’s going on?” Eden asked, taking out her earbuds and pausing her music—her father’s “Land Down Under” playlist.

“That’s what we’d like to know,” her mom said.

They’d had a handful of moments like this in the past six months—when they were like characters out of a not particularly well-written film about a mother and daughter clashing.